


All The Substance Of His House

by Aerlalaith



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Christmas, Communication Failure, Domestic, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Family, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Politics, Slice of Life, Teacher Castiel, Veteran Castiel, Veteran Dean, Veterans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: When Don't Ask Don't Tell is repealed, U.S. army veterans Dean and Castiel must each come to terms with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from the Song of Songs poem "Love Is Strong As Death", which I cannot take credit for.

The engine was a hunk of fused metal and what might have passed for spare parts—several hundred miles ago. Dean took one look at it, shook his head, and slammed the hood down. “Christ,” he said. “It’s not like we tell people to get the oil checked just to screw with them. Bunch of dumb fucks.” He wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it to Benny.  
   
“That bad?”  
   
“Whole damn thing’s a garden sculpture. I could probably call it art and sell it on eBay.”  
   
Benny chuckled. “Just got to make sure you give the boss his cut, brother.”  
   
“Come on, Benny, Bobby probably doesn’t even know what eBay is.” Dean pointed at himself. “I could make millions, okay?”  
   
That time, Benny outright laughed. “You serious? Son of a bitch has it bookmarked on his damn computer.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” Dean lifted a skeptical eyebrow. Benny gave him a look.  
   
“Where did you think he gets all that stuff cramming up his office space?” Benny said dryly, nodding towards the door. “You think all them books just showed up one day?”  
   
Dean shrugged. “Guess I never really thought about it.” He adjusted his jumpsuit, giving one last scowl to the car. “Just Bobby, you know?”  
   
“Oh, are we talking about Bobby? He’s definitely a hoarder,” Charlie informed him from behind.  
   
“Holy shit!” Dean stumbled away from her, nearly crashing into a different car. There was a grunt of protest from whoever was on the other side. “Get a bell, you monster.”  
   
“Sorry,” she winked, “no can do. Would totally ruin my style. And this, bitch,” she preened, indicating her t-shirt, “is what brings the ladies in.”  
   
Dean eyed the t-shirt, which featured a kitten dressed in a Princess Leia bikini, wielding a lightsaber.  Unable to really disagree with her, he focused on the important part of that sentence. “You did not just call me your bitch.”  
   
“Okay, _handmaiden_.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “So sensitive.”  
   
“Handmaiden?” Benny asked, straightening from his crouch behind a wheel. He turned to Dean, the corner of his mouth twitching as he looked him up and down. “Brother,” he drawled, “you have been holding out.”  
   
Dean turned bright red. “Oh, screw you.”  
   
Benny winked at him.  
   
“Anyway,” Charlie continued, poking him in the arm with her bony finger, “Bobby wants to see you in his office.” She huffed. “Like, I don’t know why he couldn’t just freaking call you, he was watching Youtube or something, not like I had anything better to do than come out here—do I look like an errand girl?”  
   
“Don’t answer that,” Dean said, as Benny opened his mouth. He turned back to Charlie. “Did he say why he wanted to see me?”  
   
“No. I mean,” she tucked her hair back behind her ears, “not that I know.”  
   
Dean furrowed his brow, shifting to glance at what used to be a perfectly functional Acura TL. “Is it about the car?”  
   
She shrugged. Dean cast a look at Benny, who gave him a ‘you think I know?’ shake of the head. The lines in Dean’s forehead deepened.  
   
“Did he look mad or something?”  
   
“He always looks mad. It’s like, some kind of weird, permanent expression of his.”  
   
“ _Charlie_.”  
   
“No? I don’t know. Just.” Charlie twirled a lock of red hair around her finger. “Just go see what he wants, okay?”  
   
“All right, all right.” Dean held up his hands in surrender. “I’m going. Jesus.” He stumped over to the door, the skin on the back of his neck prickling as Charlie’s eyes followed him. She looked like she was trying to seem cool, but was actually kind of concerned. Dean figured that could only mean bad things.  
   
Bobby’s office was a reclaimed and retooled shed in the back of Singer Auto and Salvage. The office now had electricity and a toilet, which Dean was grateful for, and climate control in the form of a window unit air conditioner and a space heater, which Dean also would have appreciated, if Bobby could have ever been assed to use them at the appropriate intervals.  
   
Like now, for example. Here they were in late December, the windows frosted with ice, and Bobby hadn’t even bothered to seal off the window unit, or drag the heater out from under the extra desk. Dean swore that if Bobby didn’t do it by Christmas, Dean was just going to break in over the weekend and take care of it himself.  
   
Dean didn’t bother knocking. He turned the knob, stepped inside, and closed the door firmly behind him. He spotted Bobby staring intently at the computer screen. Naturally, his mouth working before his brain could quite catch up, the first thing he said was, “You buying more shit on eBay?”  
   
Bobby tore himself away from the screen to scowl at him. “Don’t be a smartass,” he said.  
   
At the response—grumpy, a little scathing, and altogether typical—the tension in Dean’s shoulders relaxed enough that he allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk up. Whatever Bobby’s issue was, it didn’t have to do with Dean screwing up. “Can’t help it,” he said. “It’s part of my charm.”  
   
In response, Bobby snorted. But then his expression sobered. And then it grew downright serious. Alarm bells began to chime in Dean’s head.  
   
He cleared his throat.  “Hey,” he said, trying to stall whatever terrible inevitability was about to happen, “the uh, the car’s engine’s fused on the Acura that came in today. Gonna need a new one.”  
   
Bobby’s serious look was instantly gone, replaced by one of pure outrage. “Balls,” he said. “Freaking _idiot_!” He began to paw at the items on his desk, clearly searching for something. “God damn it.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean huffed, crossing his arms. “Tell me about it.”  
   
“Crowley ain’t going to like that.” Bobby pulled out a piece of lined paper from somewhere underneath the small mountain range of junk on his desk, and began to make notes.  
   
“That car’s Crowley’s?” Dean asked, surprised. To be fair, for a customer as regular as Crowley, who insisted on having every single one of his vehicles checked on the regular (his extensive collection ran the gamut from vintage Ferraris to the newest Tesla), a fused engine _was_ a surprise, given the kind of inattention it would have taken to get to that sorry state in the first place. “Seriously?”  
   
“His son’s,” Bobby said. “Gavin.”  
   
Dean’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said. “Damn.” He sat down in the chair next to the extra desk. “Sucks for him.”  
   
“Sucks for _me_ ,” Bobby corrected. “I’m the one who has to tell the bastard.” He looked like he was about to say more, his beard twitching threateningly, but then he seemed to recall what he had been thinking about before Dean had derailed him. “Dean,” he said. “I didn’t call you in here to talk about the car.”  
   
Dean braced himself. “Yeah? What did you want?”  
   
“Um,” Bobby coughed. “Well.”  
   
“Yeah?” Dean repeated, feeling a strange oscillation between impatience and terror. His heart felt like it was beating in double-time. “What, Bobby?”  
   
Bobby didn’t answer him immediately. In fact, for the first time that Dean could remember, Bobby was downright fidgeting. He rubbed his fingers together, rolled his knuckles across the desk, shoved the stubby pencils into a pile. Finally he said, “Have you seen the news?”  
   
Dean blinked. That…definitely hadn’t been at all what he’d been expecting. “What?” he said dumbly.  
   
“The news.” Bobby wasn’t even looking at him now. “Just—” he pushed at the computer monitor. He sounded almost apologetic. “Just—have a look, would you?”  
   
Dean’s eyebrows drew together. “Okay,” he said slowly, getting to his feet and peering over Bobby’s desk at the screen, which, now that he was closer, he could see was open to the New York Times. He squinted, wishing he’d brought his reading glasses. Then, as the headline slid into focus, he paled. “Holy shit,” he said.  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
“Holy, I—” Dean swayed a little as he straightened, catching his balance on the edge of the desk. “Fuck.”  
   
“Dean,” Bobby said, voice cautious.  
   
“I need to go home,” Dean said faintly, mostly to himself. “I need to—” he snapped to attention, his eyes a bit wild around the edges, but otherwise calm. “Bobby,” he said, “I need to go home. Right now.”  
   
Bobby let out a long sigh. “Figured you would,” he said. As Dean nodded jerkily, Bobby’s eyes softened. “Dean,” he said.  
   
“Yeah?” Already almost halfway out the door, Dean looked back.  
   
“You take care,” Bobby said. “Both of you.”  
   
Dean swallowed. “Thanks, Bobby,” he said. “We’ll do our best.” And with a sharp nod, the door banged shut.  
   
 

 

 

#

   
   
When Dean stepped into the doorway of the modest two story house on a quiet street lined with frosty, leafless elms, he was prepared for many things. He was prepared for the pungent scent of pot smoke, the sight of liquor bottles rolling underneath the couch or maybe—god forbid—some kind of new pet. Even a cake and some confetti and streamers. _Something_.  
   
What he was not prepared for, was to walk inside, drop his bag by the door, and to make his way to the kitchen, only to be greeted by the sight of what, on most any other day, would have been the goings on of a perfectly ordinary afternoon.  
   
Castiel was standing by the counter chopping vegetables. He looked up as Dean came in, smiled, brushed a stray hair out of his face with the back of his hand, then set to chopping again. Dean stared.  
   
“Hey, uh, Cas.”  
   
“Hello, Dean.” _Chop, chop, chop_. “You’re early today.”  
   
“Yeah, um.” Dean cleared his throat, willing himself to sound casual. “There was a thing…Bobby let me take off. Cas—”  
   
“I’m making stir-fry.” Castiel nodded towards a different part of the counter. “I was going to start the rice next. Unless you had plans for something else?”  
   
“No, that’s—that’s fine. Um.” Dean willed his feet to move, willed his throat to stop sticking as he watched Castiel shift deftly from the vegetables to the rice cooker, reach into the refrigerator for some strips of marinating beef. “Um.”  
   
“Are you all right?” Castiel was frowning now, turning towards him, away from the stove. He brushed off a fleck of diced pepper from his shirt. “Did something happen with Bobby?”  
   
Dean swallowed. “Have you seen the news?” he said abruptly.  
   
Castiel stilled. He looked away, back towards the pile of red and green vegetables. “I saw it.”  
   
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. “And?” he croaked out.  
   
There was a shrug.  
   
“Are you—are you okay?”  
   
His back still to Dean, Castiel let out a long exhale. “I’m fine,” he said. “Are you?”  
   
“Am I—?” Dean sputtered. “Cas.”  
   
“Dean,” Castiel returned, as Dean stared at the back of him helplessly, fingers trying not to clench, trying to keep his breathing even. Cas hated it when he got mad, even if it was on Cas’s behalf.  
   
“You don’t—Cas—” Dean ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s kind of a big deal, you know?”  
   
The knife stilled. “No.”  
   
“No?”  
   
“No, it’s not. It’s not a big deal.”  
   
Dean’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”  
   
Finally, Castiel turned around, mouth pursed, eyes narrowed. “Does it look like I’m not serious?”  
   
“But,” Dean said. “This could—fuck, I mean, this changes—”  
   
The knife slammed down. “This changes nothing,” Castiel said, and now he sounded angry, like he hadn’t before, his eyes flashing. Dean, who could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard Castiel actually raise his voice, gaped at him.  
   
“Cas…” Dean said. He didn’t mean it to sound pleading, but it did. Castiel turned away again.  
   
“What’s done is done for us, Dean.” He turned on the burner. “Obviously you are free to do…whatever you think can be done. For you. If you want. But this…” he scrubbed at his forehead. “Changing the law doesn’t change what happened,” he said. And now his voice sounded even rougher than usual, and cracking. “So for me…” he trailed off. “I don’t care.”  
   
Hands loose at his sides, Dean eyed him carefully. “Are you sure?”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Dean’s shoulders slumped a little. He could tell Cas was lying—hell, could tell he was upset enough that he couldn’t keep the tension out of his shoulders, his lips pressed tightly together even if his voice was even and his hand on the knife, steady.  
   
Castiel’s hands were always steady.  
   
“Okay,” Dean said quietly. “If that’s how you want it.”  
   
Castiel let out a breath. “Would you mind checking on the rice?” he asked. He jerked his head towards the cooker, which was steaming. The light from the window caught on his left cheek, showing the sharp angle of the bone, the press of his lips. Dean’s mouth immediately grew dry at the sight, a reverse Pavlov dog.  
   
Damn, but Cas still had it.  
   
On the way over, Dean slid a hand across Castiel’s back. As if on instinct, Castiel leaned into the warmth of him. Dean squeezed Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel turned his head to rub his cheek against the chapped skin of the knuckles of Dean’s hand.   
   
“Still not done,” Dean reported, peering at the cooker. He set the top back.  
   
“That’s fine.” Castiel turned on the stove. He dripped some oil in the pan, waiting for it to heat a moment before dropping in the beef. “This still has to cook.”  
   
“Hmm,” Dean said. He stepped back again, let go of his shoulder to ease closer to Castiel, resting his chin on Castiel’s shoulder, nuzzling his neck. “Smells good.”  
   
Castiel scoffed. “You sure you’re talking about the beef?”  
   
“What can I say?” Dean smirked. “I like meat.” Castiel rolled his eyes, and Dean winked, about to follow up with something else equally inappropriate, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. “Hold on,” he said, fishing for it. He glanced at the screen. “It’s Sammy.”  
   
Castiel let out a breath, his easy stance disappearing. “He probably wants to talk about—you know.”  
   
Dean nodded. He pressed the call button, moving away to give Castiel some more space as he went after the vegetables again.  
   
“Hey.”  
   
“Dean!” Sam’s voice was tinny and breathless, broken up by the sounds of dishes and voices in the background. Kid must be in a restaurant or something, Dean surmised as, with one last glance at Castiel’s back, he headed for the other room. “Dean, did you see the news?”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, Sammy. I saw it.”  
   
“And?” Hell, Sammy sounded like it was the second goddamn coming, he was so pleased. “This is fantastic, Dean. This is amazing!”  
   
“I—yeah.” Dean sat down on one of the footstools. “Yeah it’s uh. It’s really great, Sam.”  
   
Though he was several thousand miles away and in a completely different state, Dean could practically see the crease forming between his brother’s eyebrows. “You don’t sound very happy about it.”  
   
Dean sighed. He pressed the heel of his hand into his eyes. “I am,” he said to the phone. “I swear. It’s just—it’s real big, Sammy. Going to take some adjusting. Figure out what to do, you know?”  
   
“Oh.” Sam’s voice sounded abashed now. “Oh yeah. I hadn’t even thought of that. You’re right. Um.”  
   
“Yeah?”  
   
“I mean—it’s not really my area—but I could try to find someone who knows about it? The—procedure for getting, you know. Getting your record, uh, fixed or whatever.”  
   
“Aren’t you kind of jumping the gun here Sammy? We don’t even know if that’s an option.”  
   
“Oh, come on,” Sam argued. “It has to be. They can’t just change the law but keep on punishing people who were—you know—over it.”  
   
“Well.” Dean leaned to peer around the corner to see if Castiel was still in the kitchen. He was standing in front of the stove now, the sound of sizzling vegetables beginning to fill the air. Dean focused back on the phone. “I guess we’ll just cross that bridge when we come to it. Okay, Sammy?”  
   
Sam made an impatient noise. “Okay, Dean. But I’ll uh, I’ll start looking anyway. You’ve got to at least want to know the options?”  
   
Air escaping him in one long exhale, Dean shook his head in resignation. “Okay,” he said. “Fine. Whatever you want to do, I guess.”  
   
“I’ll start asking around,” Sam promised. His next question when it came however, sounded hesitant. “How’s uh, how’s Cas taking it?”  
   
“Cas?” Dean peeked around the corner again. The man in question was at the table now, setting down some silverware. “Cas he’s—he’s fine. Real excited.” Dean’s voice cracked.  
   
“Dean.”  
   
Internally, Dean cursed. “Fine,” he said, lowering his voice. “He’s pissed, but I can’t figure out at what specifically.”  
   
Sam snorted. “I can think of a couple reasons.”  
   
“No, man.” Dean scrubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Not like this. Usually he tells me, you know? None of this—I’m fine, everything’s fine, fakey bullcrap.”  
   
“Huh,” Sam drawled. “Wonder who he could’ve picked up that habit from.”  
   
“Oh, screw you,” Dean said, though without any real heat. “This is different. He’s acting like he doesn’t even care. I left Bobby’s early today ‘cause I thought I might find him, I don’t know, stoned on the couch or something. But he’s acting—” he caught himself, shook his head. “It’s weird.”  
   
A long silence followed, as Sam absorbed his words. “He’s probably just got to…I don’t know, work it out,” he said finally, clearly trying to sound comforting and missing by about a mile. “Give him some time. He likes to think these things through, doesn’t he?”  
   
“I guess.”  
   
“Well, you know Cas.”  
   
Finally, something he could work with. Dean allowed himself a lascivious smirk. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.”  
   
Thankfully, Sam took the bait. “Gross, Dean.”  
   
“Hey, man. Don’t get all squeamish about the purity of our _connection_.”  
   
“Dean,” Sam groaned. “Come on, man.”  
   
“That’s what Cas calls it. He also says—”  
   
“Dean.” Castiel appeared in the doorway. “The food is on the table,” he said. His eyes traveled over the phone. “Say hello to Sam for me,” he added, before vanishing back into the kitchen. Dean snorted.  
   
“Got to go,” he said.  
   
“You’re so whipped,” Sam observed.  
   
“Fuck you,” Dean told him cheerfully, hanging up before Sam could get in another word. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and stretched, before getting up and ambling back towards the kitchen.  
   
The table was set and the plates were filled with heaping servings of rice and stir-fry. Dean sat down, pulling a beer towards himself. “Damn,” he said. “Looks good.” He glanced over at Castiel’s face to see Castiel giving him one of his squinty-eyed looks.  
   
“Sam?”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean contemplated the chopsticks that Castiel had placed next to the plate, then went for the fork on the other side. “You were right.” He took a gulp of beer. “He wanted to talk about it.” He put the bottle down, shaking his head.  
   
Castiel hummed neutrally, very focused on his plate now. He was using the chopsticks to pick up a piece of broccoli.  
   
“Anyway,” Dean continued, now watching him closely, “he offered to find someone who could do the lawyer thing for us, if we want.”  
   
There. The tiniest spasm of the muscles in Castiel’s cheek. Castiel put down the chopsticks, grabbing a napkin to wipe the smear of soy sauce off his chin. “He doesn’t need to do that.”  
   
“Yeah,” Dean huffed, playing it up a little. He was rewarded by the slight upward tick of Castiel’s mouth. “You can try telling him that next time he calls. Not like I had any success.”  
   
“He’s very stubborn.” Castiel looked directly at him. “It’s a family trait.”  
   
Dean flushed a little, but held his gaze. “He’s just trying to help.”  
   
“He doesn’t need to.” Castiel said firmly. He concentrated on his plate again. “I like this recipe.”  
   
Dean sighed. And just like that, they were done. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s good.”  
   
If they had been any other couple, Dean knew, they could very well have spent the remainder of the meal steeped in awkward silence. Because Castiel was Castiel though, and only had the very faintest of grips on what ‘awkward’ even meant, he soon picked up the threads of conversation again without any hint of self-consciousness, asking about Dean’s day at work, telling him about the five students who’d skipped out on the final, whether or not he should’ve given them a second chance to pass…  
   
“I mean, it’s really up to you.” Dean, who probably would’ve been one of those students back in the day, considered the bulge of his stomach, and if he could handle a third helping.  
   
“I just don’t understand it,” Castiel said again, for what had to be probably the fifth time since they’d started in on the subject. He had started worrying his napkin again.  
   
At a loss, Dean lifted his shoulders. “Teenagers,” he offered. After another moment’s pondering of the serving bowl, he leaned forward, gunning for that last helping after all.  
   
“There’s dessert, too,” Castiel informed him casually, just as Dean hovered the spoon over the vegetables.  
   
“Damn it, Cas.” Dean dropped the spoon and pushed the bowl away. “Why didn’t you say so?”  
   
“I just did.”  
   
Dean narrowed his eyes. “What is it? A fortune cookie?”  
   
“Please.” Castiel seemed legitimately offended. “I know you better than that.” He slid back from the table, grabbing his plate, then Dean’s. “What do you think I got?”  
   
“Castiel,” Dean said slowly, Castiel’s words finally penetrating, “did you get me a _pie_?”  
   
At the use of his full name, so rare between them, Castiel ducked his head. “Seemed fitting,” he mumbled. “I mean, I saw the news—” oh, there it was again. Great. “—I thought, maybe, you’d want a pick-me-up…”  
   
This man. Jesus. Dean’s heart honest to god stuttered in his chest. “Damn, Cas,” he said, rising as Castiel, hands full of dishes, tottered over to the sink. He dumped the dishes into the wash basin, and turned around as Dean stalked after him, pinning him to the side of the counter with both hands on either side.  
   
Castiel tilted his head. “Dean?”  
   
“I’m going to kiss you,” Dean threatened, and then did so, pressing his lips to Castiel’s, their bodies flush together. Castiel made a noise of appreciation, hands scrabbling against Dean’s wrists.  
   
“Ah,” he said. “Dean— _mmm_ —Dean, the pie.”  
   
Reluctantly, Dean drew away. “Oh yeah,” he said. He allowed himself another moment to admire the red tinge in Castiel’s cheeks, the wetness of his lips, his hair already mussed again…  
   
“ _Dean_.”  
   
“Yeah, yeah.” His voice was rough. What were they talking about again? Oh yeah, the pie.  
   
“If you want to eat it, you have to let go of me.” Despite his words, Castiel didn’t look too troubled by the position he was in. He relaxed against the counter, legs splayed, his eyes travelling up and down Dean’s form, lingering on the way the t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, then down.  
   
“I do like pie,” Dean said.  
   
“Oh?”  
   
“I like you, too.”  
   
“I’m glad—Dean? Dean, what are you doing?”  
   
“Dessert first,” Dean reminded him, as he slid to his knees, keeping Castiel trapped between him and the sink.  
   
“I’m not dessert,” Castiel said sharply, “I—oh. Oh.” His head fell back as Dean began to draw him out of the confines of his slacks. “This is not—” he groaned, “—very sanitary.”  
   
“We’ll clean up,” Dean told him. He gazed upwards, mouth just adjacent to Castiel’s groin, hot breath misting over the area. He deliberately drew a finger across the protruding line of the zipper. “Won’t we, babe?”  
   
“I—I suppose.”  
   
“Look at you,” Dean said admiringly, feeling the thickening length in his hand. “Ready to go, are we?”  
   
“You’re very convincing,” Castiel sighed, pushing his hips forward.  
   
“One of my better traits,” Dean hummed, leaning in.  
   
His response was a look of pure desperation, gentle hands on Dean’s head. Castiel’s fingers dug into Dean’s scalp, twining around the short hairs at the back of Dean’s neck, urging him forward. “Dean,” Castiel panted. “If you’re going to—come on, don’t make me beg.”  
   
“I like when you beg.”  
   
“Ah—” Castiel managed, as Dean slid his mouth around him. His grip on Dean’s head tightened. “Come on, come on.”  
   
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean tried to say. The reverberations did nothing to get his point across, but they did have an excellent effect on the tone of the whimpers now falling from Castiel’s mouth.  
   
He sucked some more, thoughtfully almost, the feeling of Castiel heavy and salty on his tongue, touching the back of his throat while Castiel moaned and cried out above him (he could never keep his mouth shut, Dean thought, half fond, half exasperated).  
   
“Your mouth,” Castiel groaned, to which the only proper response Dean could make was to let go of Castiel’s hips with one hand and give an enthusiastic thumbs up. This did nothing but make Castiel laugh, his whole body shivering with the movement, and Dean grinned around his length.  
   
Dean shifted, his knees starting to grow numb on the kitchen tile, but Castiel was whimpering now, his grip on Dean’s head tightening, and Dean wasn’t about to leave without seeing this through.  
   
His own jeans tight, Dean pressed the heel of his hand against himself. Castiel, more cognizant of the world around him than Dean would’ve given him credit for, saw what he was up to. Seizing the moment of Dean’s distraction, Castiel tugged at his shoulders, urging him up, up, away from Castiel’s cock so that they could kiss. Castiel pressed the whole line of his body against Dean’s, bit Dean’s lip, panted in his ear:  
   
“I want you to fuck me.”  
   
“But I was gonna—” Dean protested, glancing down. Castiel’s expression, when he met it again, was just short of murderous.  
   
“ _Now.”_  
   
All right, so Cas clearly had plans now. Dean supposed that was okay. He went for Castiel’s mouth again, sucking on his lower lip, reached his hand down between them to rub at Castiel, hard and leaking against his belly.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said, strangled, grabbing at his wrist.  
   
“I know, babe, I know. Just give me a sec.” Dean considered his options. He spotted the olive oil sitting on the counter a few inches away and pursed his lips thoughtfully. Castiel, following the motion of his eyes, frowned at him.  
   
“Not the olive oil. I got that at the specialty store, Dean. We can’t use it for _lube_.”  
   
“But Cas,” Dean whined.  
   
Castiel crossed his arms, his stiff dick and half-open pants not at all detracting from the sternness of his face. “No.”  
   
“Fine,” Dean sighed. His gaze flickered back down again, almost longingly. “You sure you don’t want me to just—”  
   
“ _No_.”  
   
Dean crooked a grin at him. “Well, if you wanna get fucked that bad—” (Castiel’s eyes darkened even further) “—I guess we’ll have to finish this up elsewhere.”  
   
“Bedroom?”  
   
“Yeah, that’s where the lube is.”  
   
“That’s perfectly acceptable,” Castiel told him, very dignified as he grabbed Dean by the hand and dragged him off towards their bedroom.  
   
Once upstairs and inside, Castiel let go of Dean’s hand to flop unceremoniously onto the mattress. Not missing a beat, Dean crawled after him, crowding him up against the headboard.  
   
“Okay,” he said, after another kiss, admiring how Castiel went pliant beneath him, spreading his legs. “Where were we?”  
   
“You were going to fuck me,” Castiel reminded him, like that was something Dean could just forget. Dean gave him a light smack on the thigh.  
   
“The question was rhetorical, smartass.” He reached for the lube on the nightstand. “Condom?”  
   
“Not tonight.”  
   
“You sure?” Dean undid the button on his jeans, wriggled out of them, then the boxers. Castiel helped him with his shirt, kicking his own pants off the rest of the way. “Don’t come complaining to me when you’ve got cum leaking out of your ass,” he warned, as he squirted lube onto his fingers.  
   
“Very sure.” Castiel let out a groan, then a slow sigh as his body was breached by Dean’s prodding fingers. “Very sure,” he repeated. He squirmed against the sheets in delight at the burn of Dean’s fingers, hand drifting down to rub at his own cock.  
   
“Hey,” Dean chastised, slapping his hand away. “That’s for me to do.”  
   
Castiel, eyes half lidded now, no shame at all in the lean stretch in his body, turned his head to Dean and said, “Then do it.”  
   
“I’m getting there.”  
   
“Hurry up.”  
   
“Man, and you say _I’m_ the one always going from zero to sixty. Nothing wrong with a little anticipation.” He rotated his fingers, listening to the hitch in Castiel’s breathing.  
   
“I’m relatively certain I’ve never said that about you.”  
   
“Liar,” Dean said fondly.  
   
In response, Castiel hooked his ankles around Dean’s legs, and clamped down.  
   
Dean swore, prodded Castiel’s prostate in revenge. Castiel whimpered.  
   
“Dean,” he gasped, his hips jerking up off the mattress. “Come _on_.”  
   
“You ready?”  
   
“Haven’t I been telling you?”  
   
“ _Cas_.”  
   
“Yes, fine.” Castiel let his legs drop and sat up a little, biting his lip in consideration. “You’ve prepared me enough, it’s fine. Just do it, Dean.” He lay back down again, widened the gap of his legs, tilted his hips so that Dean could bump up against him easy, fist squeezing the base of his cock, guiding it towards Castiel. His mouth fell open as Dean, cheeks red, biting his lower lip in concentration, slowly slid inside.  
   
“Okay?” Dean gasped, now seated in the heat of him. “Okay, Cas?”  
   
He heard Castiel take a couple of deep, steadying breaths. “Yes,” he grit out. “Kiss me, Dean. I want you to kiss me.”  
   
Dean was only too happy to comply. Castiel moaned through it, lifting his face up to be kissed, to be caressed. Castiel’s arms wrapped around him, ankles twined again with Dean’s, keeping him in place. Dean began a slow rock, murmuring, “This…this good? This good for you, Cas? Babe?”  
   
“It’s good,” Castiel breathed back, fingers tightening on Dean’s shoulders, digging marks into his biceps. “It’s good—you’re so good for me— _Dean_!”  
   
“Gonna be so good to you,” Dean muttered into Castiel’s shoulder, pistoning his hips. He smiled as he heard Castiel’s strangled cry. “So good, Cas.”  
   
Clearly beyond speech at that point, breath hitching at every crack of Dean’s hips, Castiel drew bruises on Dean’s shoulders, pressed desperate kisses onto the corners of his mouth, panted at the nudge of Dean against the bundle of nerves inside him. “Dean, Dean, Dean,” he chanted, his vision beginning to whiten at the edges.  
   
“Yeah? Is this what you wanted, Cas, babe? Wanted me to fuck you like this?”  
   
“H—harder,” Castiel practically sobbed. “Please, Dean. I need it.”  
   
“You got it,” Dean groaned. He gripped Castiel’s hips, increased the pace, the frequency of his thrusts. “Come on, Cas,” he said, as Cas’s mouth fell slack, his eyes closed. “No, baby, let me see those gorgeous eyes of yours.”  
   
With what was clearly an extraordinary effort, Castiel opened his eyes again. Dean smiled, grunting as he pressed again into Castiel, feeling the tightness of him, the warmth. Castiel’s pupils were blown wide, his cheeks red, his mouth wet.  
   
“There you are,” Dean crooned, bending to kiss him, hitching his legs up on either side. “There you are, sweetheart.” Castiel’s eyes widened even further at the change in angle, he let out another low cry as Dean pulled him down, kissed him breathless.  
   
“Dean,” he whispered, the blood pounding in his ears, his cock trapped between them, rubbing between their bellies. His breath caught on the next thrust. “Dean, I—”  
   
Dean felt it, the splash of heat, the spasmodic tightening of Castiel’s fingers. He buried his grin in Castiel’s shoulder, felt Castiel’s legs relax as he sank boneless into the bed, the tension gone as though cut through. Dean redoubled his efforts, determined to reach his peak while Castiel softened below him, warm and sticky. He groaned his completion into Castiel’s neck less than a minute later, slumping on top of him.  
   
Castiel’s hands, warm, reassuring, steady as always, circled round, drew him into an embrace even as he felt himself slip out, a little bit bereft, as always, at the loss of connection between them.  
   
“So…” Castiel said after a few more minutes, when it became clear that Dean wasn’t about to move. His voice was a little muffled, still pinned under Dean. “About that pie.”  
   
With a groan, Dean managed to roll off of him and flop backwards onto the bed. “Oh yeah,” he said, voice mirthful. “I almost forgot.”  
   
Castiel jabbed his elbow into Dean’s side. Dean squirmed in protest. “I don’t believe you.”  
   
“I swear. Really.”  
   
“Uh huh.” Castiel slowly sat up. He looked at the pool of cooling cum on his stomach with distaste. “I need to clean this off first.”  
   
Dean fluttered his eyelashes. “Bring me a washcloth?”  
   
Castiel snagged his elbow, hauling Dean up as well. “You can come with.”  
   
Dean smirked. “Pretty sure I just did.” He yelped as, with a roll of his eyes, Castiel aimed a well-placed swat at Dean’s backside.  
   
“Shower first,” he said. He inclined his head. “Then we may eat the pie.”  
   
With a theatrical sigh, Dean acquiesced. Twenty minutes later, freshly bathed and dressed in the identically fuzzy robes Castiel had snatched for sale at Target on Black Friday, they ate the pie in bed, bickering over who had dropped what crumbs, and whose job it would be to clean it up.  
   
 

 

 

#

   
   
While their home could, more or less, pass for a safe haven, it was impossible to escape the goings on of the outside world. Whatever Cas experienced he didn’t say, but Dean, who was out at work mostly by accident, suffered through Charlie’s elated high-five and Benny’s gruff, “Congratulations, brother. Glad it’s been put to right.”  
   
_It’s not right yet_ , Dean wanted to say, but didn’t, mindful that they only meant the best. _It’s barely scratching the surface of it._  
   
But with Bobby’s brusque urging and Sam’s insistent voice messages, Dean made the call. Carefully, wrapping the phone cord around his fingers, trying not to see them shake, he explained to the woman over the phone that yes, he was a veteran, yes, he’d been discharged less-than-honorably over the old policy, and now what were his options for getting the record set straight?  
   
He listened intently as she explained bits and pieces of the, what he thought with disgust was definitely an overly-complicated procedure. He wrote some things down, asked a few questions, provided a few numbers.  
   
With a deep breath, he hung up the phone in Bobby’s office. He glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised to see that he was already over his break. Quickly, he stuffed the piece of paper with his notes into his pocket and strode out the door.  
   
Bobby met him outside the back door to the shop. “Did you call ‘em?”  
   
Dean nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I called them. They’re, uh. They’re going to look into it for me. You know. Make some calls. File some paperwork. I think I’ve got to send them some stuff though…plus there’s still that waiting period certification thing—” He startled as Bobby clapped a hand on his shoulder.  
   
“I’m proud of you, son,” he said, while Dean turned red. “It wasn’t ever right, what happened. You and Cas…” he let out a breath. “You’ve got somethin’ special.” He held up his hand when Dean opened his mouth. “Now, I admit, it might’ve taken me a bit to see it, but I’ve always been in your corner, boy. You know that.”  
   
“Yeah, Bobby.” Dean swallowed, throat tight. “I know. Thanks.”  
   
“Don’t thank me,” Bobby told him, the roughness back in his voice. “Just—go home already, okay? It’s Christmas Eve.” He nodded towards the door. Outside, the sky was darkening, covered with full, gray clouds. “It’s starting to snow again anyway.”  
   
“You sure?” Dean said, surprised. “I mean, I thought we were staying open ‘til five today?”  
   
Bobby shrugged. “Benny had something, Charlie’s already took off. Might as well get gone ourselves. The cars’ll keep ‘til next week.”  
   
For a moment, Dean considered, biting his lip. He didn’t really want to abandon Bobby alone in the shop, but the thought of heading home and just— _relaxing_ , was pretty appealing. Plus Cas always had a thing for a big Christmas Eve dinner. He’d probably appreciate Dean’s help. “Okay,” Dean said. He then surprised them both by giving Bobby a hug. “Sorry,” he said quickly, as he released him. “I just.” Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. “Thanks, Bobby.”  
   
Bobby patted him gingerly on the back. “Go home, son,” he said. “Spend some time with that boy of yours. You both deserve it.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean whispered, blinking rapidly, trying not to let it show. He hurried out towards the car, letting the rumble of her engine sooth his thoughts when he turned the key. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Bobby rapped on the window. Composing himself, he rolled it down. “Yeah?”  
   
“We’ll still see you two for Christmas dinner now,” Bobby said.  
   
“Oh yeah, of course.”  
   
“Figured Ellen’d have my hide if I forgot to remind you.” Bobby nodded sharply. “So, there’s your reminder.”  
   
“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean snorted. He made to roll the window up, then paused, remembering something. “Are we supposed to bring anything? Cas wanted me to ask.”  
   
But Bobby just waved him away. “Can’t say no to alcohol,” he said. “But Ellen’s cooking up a storm, way I hear it. You boys just bring yourselves.”  
   
Dean rolled his eyes. “Cas’ll probably want to bring something anyway.”  
   
“You do what you want. See you tomorrow.” Bobby stepped away from the car, as Dean finished rolling the window back up and shifted into drive. He waved as he drove carefully out of the icy driveway, mindful of the slick road all the way back to the house. No way was he wrecking his baby on some damn ice.  
   
When he got there, Castiel was already home, still wearing the sweatpants he’d seen Dean off in that morning. The perks, Dean thought, of a teacher’s schedule. He dropped his bag by the door, shook off his coat, and stripped off his gloves. Castiel, who was on the phone, mouthed, ‘Hello,’ at him, before turning back to his conversation. “I didn’t expect them to,” he was saying. “No, that has absolutely nothing to do with it, Gabriel.”  
   
While Castiel made frustrated noises into the mouthpiece, Dean padded towards the kitchen and reached for the top cupboard. He poured two tumblers of whisky, then made his way back out into the living room in time to catch the next bit of the conversation. He tilted his head, watching as Castiel ran his fingers through his hair. It was already quite the disaster, signaling to Dean at least, that this particular phone call had been going on for some time.  
   
“Yes, I know,” Castiel was saying. “No, I don’t—no, you listen to me. It’s my decision, okay. It’s—I do have reasons! I have my own reasons, damn it. Nothing to do with them.” He listened for a moment, while Dean lifted a concerned eyebrow at him. “No,” he said finally, his voice calmer now.  He accepted the glass that Dean handed to him, downed it in one go, and gave it back. Dean’s other eyebrow shot up. “I don’t have to tell you, Gabriel,” he said. “It’s my business—” he let out a sigh as the voice on the other line increased in pitch. “No, I know,” he said tiredly. “I know.”  
   
“Your brother?” Dean asked, bumping his shoulder. He handed over his own glass, which Castiel also accepted. “Sip that one though, this time,” Dean said. “Okay?” He nodded towards the clock. “Kinda early for knocking ‘em back so fast.”  
   
“You would be too,” Castiel grumbled, shifting the phone to his other ear and practically collapsing onto the couch. He did sip that time however, exhaling as Dean sat down next to him. Their elbows knocked. “No, I wasn’t talking to you, Gabriel,” he said. “Dean’s home.”  
   
“Hey, Gabe!” Dean said cheerfully. “Quit being a dick.”  
   
“Funny, Dean,” Castiel said dryly, as out of the phone came a faint,  
   
_“Up yours, Deano!”_  
   
“You should tell him to hang up.” Dean slid a suggestive hand over Castiel’s knee. “For reasons.”  
   
Castiel nudged his hand away. “We’re almost done.”  
   
Pouting, Dean leaned back against the couch. In a move as smooth as if he’d been at the movies on a first date, he stretched, snaking his arm up and over Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel gave him a look. Dean grinned.  
   
“Listen, Gabriel,” Castiel said. “I’ve really…got to hang up now. We’re just about ready to start making, um, dinner.”  
   
_“You’re not fooling anybody, Cassie,”_ came Gabriel’s voice. _“Say hi to that big, strapping lug of yours, would you?”_  
   
“Go screw yourself,” Dean replied, drawing lazy circles on Castiel’s arm.  
   
Castiel sighed. “Merry Christmas, Gabriel,” he said firmly. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”  
   
Gabriel blew what sounded like a raspberry. Castiel wrinkled his nose. _“Talk to you later, Cassie,”_ he said, and then hung up. Castiel blinked, stared at the blank screen for a moment, and then tossed the phone onto the other side of the couch with a groan.  
   
“How much whiskey do we have?” he mumbled, kneading his temples.  
   
“That bad, huh?”  
   
“He’s just,” Castiel let out a long breath. “Just his usual self, I suppose.” He leaned against Dean, resting his head on his shoulder. Dean fluffed his hair.  
   
“What did he want?” Dean asked, already having an idea. He doubted Castiel would admit it though.  
   
“The usual.”  
   
“The usual?”  
   
“Mmm.”  
   
“Huh.” Dean watched as Castiel made a contented noise, eyes slipping shut like a cat’s. He snickered. “Didn’t you get enough sleep already? I know you went back to bed after I left this morning.”  
   
“No such thing.”  
   
“Uh huh.” He slapped Castiel’s leg, and lurched to his feet. “Up and at ‘em,” he said. “We making food or not?”  
   
Castiel groaned, flopping into the space Dean had left behind. “Let’s just order a pizza.”  
   
“A pizza?” Dean said, taken aback, already halfway to the kitchen. “Sorry, what?”  
   
“A pizza.”  
   
Dean slowly came back to stand in front of Castiel. “A pizza,” he repeated.  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
“On Christmas Eve?”  
   
Castiel slitted an eye at him, practically hugging the pillow. “Are you telling me you don’t want pizza?”  
   
Dean crossed his arms. “Hey, I’ll eat pizza, no problem. I’m just saying: you’re the one who always wants the nice, traditional Christmas Eve dinner. We’ve even got a freaking ham in the fridge.”  
   
“I know.” Castiel pushed himself upright again, if only to prop himself up against the arm of the couch instead. He passed his hand over his eyes. “I suppose I’m not really ‘feeling it’ this year.”  
   
“Cas, please never use air quotes again. We’ve talked about this.”  
   
“I like them.”  
   
“I know you do.”  
   
“You only said I wasn’t to use them in public.”  
   
Dean blew air out of the corner of his mouth. “You sure you’ll be fine with just a pizza?” he repeated. Castiel nodded.  
   
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m sure.” He was back to rubbing his temples. “We can bring the ham to Bobby’s or—or freeze it. Either’s fine.” He shrugged, toying with the fraying string on the end of the couch.  
   
“You’re sure.”  
   
Castiel shrugged again.  
   
Dean eyed him for a moment, the lines in his forehead deepening. Castiel continued to avoid his gaze. Finally Dean said, voice quiet, “Cas, talk to me. Is something wrong?”  
   
Castiel quickly looked up. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing, Dean. Just—it’s—it’s Gabriel and, and I’m tired—”  
   
“Don’t give me that bull,” Dean said, sharper than he perhaps intended. He shook his head. “Man, don’t think I can’t tell when something’s wrong, okay? You don’t want to talk about it…” his breath hissed between his teeth. “Fine, okay? I don’t agree with you, but whatever.” He looked at Castiel sternly, “But don’t for a second think that I can’t tell when something’s bothering you.”  
   
Castiel bowed his head. “Sorry,” he said to the floor. “I know, you’re right, Dean.” He glanced back up again. “I just—I don’t want to talk about it right now.” He faltered. “Not even with you.”  
   
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Did Gabe say something?”  
   
“Gabriel says a lot of things.”  
   
Something occurred to Dean. “Is this about the news? Did he tell you something about it?”  
   
Castiel gave him a piercing look. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, Dean.”  
   
“But—”  
   
“Are we going to order that pizza or not?”  
   
Dean’s mouth clicked shut. There was an uncomfortable gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, despite the long day, the thought of food made him nauseous. With supreme effort, he willed his voice to steadiness. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Your call. I’m gonna,” he glanced at his phone, “I’m gonna order that pizza.” He swallowed reflexively. “Meat lovers okay?”  
   
“Sounds good,” Castiel said, back to staring at his knees.  
   
Though he really didn’t need to, Dean went into the kitchen to order, leaving Castiel to sit alone on the couch, knees drawn up to his chest, staring blankly at the wall.  
   
When the pizza finally arrived, they ate quietly at the table, conversation muted to the usual ‘how was your day?’ and ‘what did Bobby say about that?’ and ‘I guess we could bring booze, he said it’d be fine.’  
   
Dean could barely finish one piece. He found himself surprised not at all when Castiel retreated for bed early, citing a headache. Though he nodded and made all the appropriate sympathetic noises, he knew what Cas really meant.  
   
After all, Dean knew he wasn’t the only one in this family whose favorite form of conflict resolution was to ignore it and hope it went away.  
   
Later, Dean slipped in beside him, careful as the mattress creaked below his weight. Castiel was already asleep at that point, or else really good at faking it. Dean observed him for a few moments, the rise and fall of his chest, the crease between his eyebrows smoothed out in slumber. He reached out a hand and gently traced down Castiel’s cheek.  
   
“Stubborn bastard,” he whispered, then pulled the covers up so that they draped snugly around Castiel’s bare shoulder.  
   
He fell asleep facing away from Castiel, and as he slept, he dreamed.  
   
_He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything. Could smell sand and motor oil and copper blood. It was in his eyes, his mouth oh god, his ears were ringing. There was a dull ache radiating down his arm, something wavered before his vision, a mirage, a sharp sting across his cheeks. Someone grabbed his shoulders, shaking him._  
   
_“Hey. Hey! Are you with me?”_  
   
_Dean groaned, slurred something that might have been a question, a query, where was he, what happened—_  
   
_“Hey!” Another blow across his face. “Are you with me?” the voice demanded again._  
   
_Dean opened his eyes. Blinked the blood and sweat and grit and sand out of them. Saw an angel, halo of light around him, backlit by the setting desert sun._  
   
_“Yessir,” he managed, not quite sure who he was talking to, not quite sure if his mouth had actually moved. He coughed._  
   
_The man kneeling before him shifted. He was a man now, Dean could see. He wore dirty tan fatigues, helmet crooked on his head, face smeared with ash and grime. Behind him, the sun began to disappear into the low, dun-colored hills. “What’s your name, soldier?” he asked, already beginning to do something to Dean’s wrist._  
   
_Dean’s throat worked. “Winchester,” he croaked out._  
   
_“Your rank?”_  
   
_“P—private,” Dean gasped. Damn his arm really hurt. His leg hurt. Everything hurt. “First class. Sir.”_  
   
_“Well, Private Winchester.” The man looked at him, and Dean didn’t know if it was the moment or the blow to his head, but he thought he spotted a hint of a smile, the barest upward curvature of chapped lips, though his eyes were serious as stone. “Today’s your lucky day. You’re going to be just fine.”_  
   
Dean awoke with a start. There were dried tear tracks on his cheeks. On the other side of the bed, Castiel snuffled in his sleep. Feeling something twitch against his palm, Dean glanced down.  
   
Though they had gone to bed separately, somehow, Castiel had grabbed his hand in the night—or else, he had grabbed Castiel’s. Dean stared at their linked hands for a moment. Then, wiping his eyes with his free hand, he squeezed Castiel’s fingers. He exhaled, wriggled in closer to the middle of the bed, closer to the form on the other side, shut his eyes again, and went back to sleep.  
   
He did not let go.  
   
When he floated back to wakefulness the second time, it was to Castiel’s low voice murmuring against his ear, breath hot on his cheek. Dean lay very still, pretending to still be dreaming.  
   
“For love is as strong as death,” Castiel was whispering. “Jealousy is cruel as the grave. The coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.”  
   
Christ. Song of Songs again. Cas must really be in a mood. Dean heard Castiel swallow, heard the quick inhale of air.  
   
“Many waters cannot quench love,” he said softly. There was a definite hitch in his voice. “Nor can the floods drown it.”  
   
Dean’s eyes peeked open.  
   
“You’re a flatterer, babe,” he said, voice low.  
   
Startled, Castiel moved as if to roll away from him, stammering apologies for waking him. Dean ignored them, tugging him back.  
   
“Finish the verse?”  
   
A moment’s hesitation, then Castiel resettled against the pillow. His tongue flicked out between his teeth. He took a deep breath, hand resting on top of Dean’s hair, lightly combing through it, like an apology and a benediction all at once. Dean’s eyes fluttered shut again. “If a man would give all the substance of his house for love,” Castiel began, “it would utterly be contemned.”  
   
 

 

 

#

   
   
Christmas morning came and went. They spent most of it in bed. Not really having sex, more like dozing on and off, surrounded by a cocoon of warmth, occasionally stirred to life by the other’s kisses, light touches and strokes. Dean figured he’d had worse Christmases.  
   
“I had a dream about you last night,” Dean mentioned casually, when they were dressed and sipping coffee in the kitchen, already late to leave for Bobby’s.  
   
“About me?”  
   
“Yeah.” Dean withheld a grin, seeing Castiel’s brief moment of smugness fade into nerves as he asked, clearly running _all_ the possibilities through his mind,  
   
“What did you dream about?”  
   
“You,” Dean said simply, and winked. Castiel pursed his lips and huffed, turning away to gulp some more coffee, though not before Dean caught a glimpse of the color rising in his cheeks. Deciding to be merciful and put Castiel out of his misery, he added, “About the day we met.”  
   
Quickly, Castiel turned around. He looked sad. “A nightmare?”  
   
Dean nearly spat out his drink. “What? No, Cas. It wasn’t a nightmare. Jesus. Why would you think that?”  
   
Castiel clinked his fingernail against the handle of the mug. “Most people would classify reliving the day you almost got killed by an IED as a ‘nightmare’.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean sighed. He stretched across to Castiel and brushed his knuckles along Castiel’s cheek. Castiel’s fingers tightened reflexively around the handle of the mug. “Yeah, okay, that day in general kind of sucked—”  
   
“Seriously, I’d say.”  
   
“Shut up. I got to meet you, didn’t I? Jesus.” Dean lowered his chin to his chest, mumbling, “The dream wasn’t that bad, okay?”  
   
He felt first a hesitant touch of a hand against his arm, then a grip on his shoulder. “Okay, Dean.”  
   
Dean sighed, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with the palms of his hands. “We’re gonna be late.” Castiel watched him as he got to his feet. “We bringing that ham?”  
   
A small smile flickered at the corner of Castiel’s mouth. He stood as well, pushing his chair back towards the table. “I don’t believe Ellen would appreciate her cooking being upstaged,” he said. “We can leave it here.”  
   
“Okay, so we’re not going to bring anything?”  
   
“We have some molasses cookies we can bring. I baked them yesterday afternoon.”  
   
Dean halted in the action of putting on his coat. He swiveled around. “We have cookies?”  
   
“Yes.” Castiel went over to one of the cupboards and removed a red tin. Dean cocked his head in interest.  
   
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
   
“Because,” Castiel said, closing the lid firmly, just as Dean was reaching for it, “I knew you would eat them all.”  
   
“Cas,” Dean complained, trying to grab the tin again. Castiel put it behind his back.  
   
“No.”  
   
“Come on.”  
   
“No.”  
   
Dean looked Castiel up and down, from his pressed black slacks to the festive snowflake Christmas sweater. “I can take you,” he said. “And those cookies.”  
   
In return, Castiel simply crooked an eyebrow at him. “I’m trembling,” he said dryly.  
   
Dean narrowed his eyes. Castiel’s nostrils flared.  
   
There was a pregnant pause.  
   
The next moment, Dean had lunged for the red edge of the tin he could see peeking out behind Castiel’s back. His fingers scrabbled for it, almost grabbing hold. But just as he was prepared to crow his victory, he felt strong hands catching his wrist, twisting it. Dean yelped, and two seconds later found himself face down on the floor, Castiel calmly standing above him, the cookie tin safely out of reach on top of the counter.  
   
“No, Dean,” Castiel repeated. He smirked. Dean half wanted to kiss him, half wanted to punch him.  
   
“Please,” Dean tried, though because his nose was squashed into the tile, it was muffled and came out like, _“Bleaz.”_ Castiel released him enough to allow him to roll over. Dean took full advantage of this freedom, stretching out on the floor, smiling winsomely up at his opponent, batting his eyelashes. “C’mon, Cas, baby. Just one? I’ll trade you for it.”  
   
Eyes raking down Dean’s form, lingering on the exposed curve of his stomach, where Dean’s shirt had ridden up, Castiel considered this new request. “What will you give me?” he asked finally.  
   
“Uh…a kiss?”  
   
Castiel folded his arms.  
   
“Two kisses?”  
   
“Three kisses,” said Castiel.  
   
“Okay, three kisses,” Dean agreed, shifting to a sitting position. He grabbed the hand that Castiel extended, letting Castiel pull him up. “Sounds like a—hey!”  
   
“Three kisses,” Castiel repeated, now pinning Dean to the counter with nothing but a well-executed nudge. “ _And_.”  
   
“…And?” Dean squeaked. Castiel’s leg was _incredibly_ well placed.  
   
“ _And_ , you will watch my new Planet Earth DVDs with me. All of them.”  
   
Dean gaped at him. “What?” he groaned. “Come on, Cas!”  
   
Castiel stared him down. “All of them, Dean.”  
   
“But—”  
   
“Do we have a deal?”  
   
They eyed each other. Dean’s face was red, his hair squashed flat on one side, the front of his green henley dusty from the floor. Castiel’s expression was calm. His gaze bored into Dean.  
   
Dean broke first.  
   
“Fine, fine!” he snapped, hanging his head. “I’ll watch your damn hippie DVDs with you.”  
   
At the surrender, Castiel immediately released him and stepped back, looking very pleased with himself. “We can start tonight after dinner,” he announced.  
   
“I should never have gotten you those,” Dean grumbled, as he eased himself away from the counter. “Worst Christmas present ever.”  
   
With a shrug, Castiel extended the tin toward him. “Too late.”  
   
Grudgingly, Dean took the tin, but didn’t open it. Castiel blinked at him questioningly. Dean put the tin aside and shuffled towards Castiel, who tilted his head.  
   
“Dean?”  
   
“I pay my debts.” Dean said. “One.” He kissed Castiel’s left cheek.  
   
“Dean,” Castiel said again, this time more sternly.  
   
“Two.” Dean kissed the right cheek. Castiel squinted at him.  
   
“This is not in the spirit of our agreement,” he grumbled.  
   
“Says who?”  
   
“I do.”  
   
“So you don’t want the third one?”  
   
“I never said that.”  
   
“Alrighty then. And…” The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched. He hovered above Castiel’s lips, just short of brushing them. Castiel held his breath. “And…three!” Dean crowed, just before swooping in to place a slobbery lick right on the tip of Castiel’s nose.  
   
In the time it took for Castiel to cringe back, nose wrinkling, swearing under his breath, Dean was out the door, cookie tin in hand, scrambling to get into the car. Castiel stalked after him.  
   
“Sorry, Cas,” Dean said, jamming the key into the door. “Three’s the limit—”  
   
“You—”  
   
“Ellen’s going to wonder what happened to us—”  
   
Castiel grabbed Dean by the shoulders, spun him around, and yanked him into a deep and filthy kiss, scowling the whole way. After a full minute, he let Dean go, shoved him away, and stomped over to the passenger side of the car. Dean stumbled back, dazed, as he caught himself on the door handle.  
   
After taking another moment to compose himself, Dean tugged open the door to slide into the driver’s seat. Hands moving on autopilot, lips tingling, still trying to process what, exactly, had just gone down, he started the car. Next to him, Castiel pried open the cookie tin and offered him one.  
   
Dean let out a huff of rueful laughter. “Thanks, Cas,” he said. He took it and bit into it, making appreciative noises. “Mmm, you made these yesterday?”  
   
“I did.”  
   
“They’re good.” Dean began to back out of the driveway.  
   
“Thank you.”  
   
When they arrived at Bobby’s house a full twenty-eight minutes late, Ellen received them at the door. She wore an apron splattered with gravy stains and a stern expression. She didn’t say anything though, as Dean ducked around her with a shamefaced grin.  
   
“Smells good in here!”  
   
“It had better,” Ellen replied. She turned to Castiel and gave him a much warmer smile. “Hello, Castiel. How have you been?”  
   
“I’ve been well, thank you.” Castiel bent down a little to permit her to reach around his neck for a quick hug. “Merry Christmas.”  
   
“Well, that’s good to hear, honey,” Ellen told him. “Merry Christmas.” She turned to Dean, looking him up and down. “Dean, boy,” she said, “why on earth is your shirt front all dusty?”  
   
“Um,” Dean started, rubbing the back of his neck. Luckily, though likely unintentionally, Bobby came by the doorway to rescue him.  
   
“We gonna stand here chatting, or are we gonna eat?” Bobby crossed his arms. “Hey, Cas,” he added. “Good to see you again.”  
   
“Hello, Bobby,” Castiel said, nodding. “Merry Christmas.”  
   
“Merry Christmas.” A pause. “Nice sweater.”  
   
“It was on sale,” Castiel said, without a hint of irony, to which Bobby could do nothing but shake his head.  
   
Dean elbowed his way next to Castiel. “What, you're not even going to say hi to me?”  
   
“I see your ugly mug every day.”  
   
“That’s cold, old man.”  
   
“I don’t have to let you eat at my table.”  
   
“We brought cookies,” Castiel told Ellen, lifting the container. She took it, pulled it open, and examined the contents.  
   
“That’s sweet, hon. You didn’t have to do that.” She handed the tin back to him. “Here, put them in the kitchen. You didn’t just bake them, did you?”  
   
“I made them yesterday.”  
   
Hearing the commotion, Jo leaned out of the kitchen, where she had been up to her elbows in mashing sweet potatoes. “Did Cas make cookies?” she demanded. “I want one.”  
   
“Of course.” Stepping to the side, Castiel handed one to her. Dean immediately did an about-face to frown at him.  
   
“Hey!” he protested. “How come she just gets one?”  
   
“He likes me better,” Jo said as, with a flick of her ponytail, she retreated back to the potatoes.  
   
Castiel, meanwhile, was giving Dean a completely innocent look, which Dean wasn’t buying for a second.  
   
“I’m wounded, Cas,” Dean continued, holding a hand to his heart. “I thought we had something.”  
   
Clearly unbothered, Castiel stepped around him towards the dining room. His fingers trailed past the soft, exposed skin at the nape of Dean’s neck. At the touch, Dean shuddered. “You’ll live,” said Castiel, and went to go sit at the end of the table next to Ash.  
   
While Dean sputtered, Ash saluted Castiel with a half-empty beer bottle. “Hey, man,” he said, eyes still on his phone.   
   
“Hello, Ash,” Castiel returned, voice grave. When Dean, recovered from his latest emotional blow, sat beside him, lower lip extended, Castiel slipped a hand under the tablecloth. He slid it over to the top of Dean’s knee, and gave him a pat. At the feeling, Dean’s expression shifted from petulant to considering. He glanced at Castiel, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Catching his gaze, Castiel looked confused for a second, before his eyes widened and he hastily removed his hand.  
   
“Dudes,” said Ash, still not looking up, “don’t do that while I’m sitting right here. Not cool.” He hit another button on his phone.  
   
At his words, Castiel twitched, his neck all the way up to his ears flushing a dark red. Ashamed not at all, Dean just snorted and leaned on his elbows across the white tablecloth, reaching for one of the beers set out in the middle.  
   
“How you doin’, Ash?”  
   
At the other end of the room, Bobby’s voice rang out.  
   
“Are you all crowding up my kitchen for nothing, or are we going to actually eat sometime this week?”  
   
“Of course we’re crowding up your kitchen, Bobby,” Jo said brightly. “You have the biggest house.” She offered him a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Want ‘em?”  
   
Obviously acting more on instinct than anything, Bobby took the bowl from her. He eyed it. “What do I do with this?”  
   
“Put it on the table,” Ellen advised. The doorbell rang again and she hastily threw the dishtowel down. “Dean, could you get that? Must be Charlie. Girl’s the only one who could be later than you two.”  
   
“I have it, Ellen,” Castiel said, while Dean was still processing her request. He quickly stood, using Dean’s shoulder to steady himself, and strode off for the entrance. There was the squeak of hinges as the door was opened, and then a squeal.  
   
“Cas!”  
   
“You better watch yourself or that girl’s going to steal your man,” Ash said. He took another swig, then belched.  
   
Ignoring the automatic rush of heat that flooded his face whenever someone overtly mentioned his and Castiel’s relationship, Dean reminded him, “Cas isn't her type.”  
   
Ash shrugged. “He don’t need to be her type for her to keep him in her house,” he said sagely. “A collectible. Like a giant, nerdy, gay action figure that talks.”  
   
Dean stared at him in horror. “Dude,” he said. “What the hell?”  
   
“Just sayin’.”  
   
“Well, _don’t!_ Jesus.”  
   
“…I know since it’s been winter we haven’t seen much of each other, Cas, but once Moondor starts up again, I’ll get Dean to bring you out like last time,” Charlie was saying, as the pair stepped back into the dining room.  
   
“I did enjoy Dean’s handmaiden costume the last time, though the particulars of the game still escape me.”  
   
Charlie beamed. “You’ll be starting from the beginning this time,” she promised. “I swear the storyline will make more sense that way.”  
   
“If you say so.”  
   
“Hey,” Dean said, as Castiel sat back down beside him, “I thought we’d agreed never to mention that costume again.”  
   
Castiel squinted at him. “Did we? My apologies. I won’t mention your handmaiden costume again.”  
   
At the other end of the table, Jo laughed while Dean sighed.  
   
Only a minute later, Ellen and Bobby brought out the rest of the food. There were Jo’s sweet potatoes, but also platters full of ham, roast parsnips, turnips and greens, green bean casserole, bread rolls, and even a bowl of orange jello with mandarin orange slices stuck in it. Dean took some of everything and heaped it onto his plate, not caring if the parsnips mixed with the potatoes, or the brown sugar on the ham mingled with the jello. Castiel meanwhile, shook his head disapprovingly and carefully served out portions of mostly meat and vegetables, taking care that each should remain on its own section of the plate. He didn’t touch the jello.  
   
For the following several minutes, there was mostly silence, broken up by the occasional requests for someone to pass a dish, or the squeak of a chair as someone got up to get a refill on soda or beer or wine.  
   
It wasn’t until seconds had been consumed, and half the table sat rubbing their distended bellies, while the other half eyed the remnants of the ham and potatoes, that conversation really began to flow again.  
   
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages, Cas,” Ellen said, putting down her fork. “School been going well?”  
   
Next to him, Dean could feel Castiel shrug. “Some of my students are doing well,” he allowed. “Others…” he left it hanging. Jo guffawed.  
   
“Like Dean, huh?”  
   
“Hey!” Dean said reflexively. He felt his cheeks heat up as Castiel turned to regard him.  
   
“No,” Castiel said finally, after giving Dean a once over. “Not like Dean.” He smiled at Dean. Helplessly, Dean’s own mouth curled up in response. “None of them have quite the—the sense of responsibility and integrity that Dean has.”  
   
Bobby cleared his throat. “Prep school,” he said. “Bunch of rich kids.”  
   
“Not all of them,” Castiel countered. “And even the ones that are—it doesn’t make them bad people or students. I try not to hold it against them.”  
   
Dean elbowed him. “Except for the few.”  
   
“Except for the few,” Castiel admitted with a sigh. They exchanged glances.  
   
“I’m surprised, Cas.” Charlie served herself the last of the potatoes. “Thought you would’ve laid the drill sergeant smackdown on them. Bet they’d all be terrified of you. You’d never have to deal with any asshole teenagers again.”  
   
Castiel scrunched his face up in confusion. “I was never a drill sergeant.”  
   
“Point still stands. Make ‘em do push-ups or something.” Charlie brushed her hair out of her face. Then she frowned. “Unless that’s against school regulation or whatever, I mean.” She tilted her head. “Is it?”  
   
“I…I’m not sure,” Castiel said after a moment. He looked down at his plate. “It doesn’t matter, however. My students don’t even know that I was ever in the military.”  
   
Halfway to putting a slice of ham into her mouth, Jo said, “Seriously?”  
   
Castiel frowned. “It’s not pertinent to their education. Besides—” he cut himself off, glancing at Dean.  
   
“Besides?”  
   
“It’s a private school, Jo,” Dean said, taking up the slack after it became apparent that Castiel wasn’t about to elaborate. “If they knew Cas was in the military, then they might find out why he left.”  
   
Charlie was nodding now, her expression suddenly sympathetic. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah, okay. I get it.”  
   
“I don’t,” Jo admitted.  
   
Castiel let out a breath, his shoulders straightening as he turned to her. “If the students or—other teachers or staff—anyone who didn’t already know by virtue of being involved in the hiring process—knew I was in a relationship with another man, well.” He took a sip of water. “As it is a private institution, I could be fired without recourse. If someone were to…complain.”  
   
Jo looked outraged. “Seriously?” she demanded.  
   
“Lotta fucked up jerks in the world,” Dean agreed, putting his empty beer bottle down on the table. Underneath it, his hand crept over to clasp Castiel’s wrist in a silent show of support. “Lucky I don’t have to worry about that.” He saluted Bobby with his fork.  
   
“Hell, Cas is probably the only reason I _ain’t_ fired you at this point,” Bobby said. “Good kid. Couldn’t do that to him.”  
   
Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “Thanks, Bobby,” he said. “Nice to know I’ve got some support.”  
   
“Just doing what I can,” Bobby told him.  
   
“Well,” Ellen said, rising. “I think it’s high time we get the rest of this meal out of the way.” She crooked a finger at her daughter. “Jo?”  
   
“Make Dean do it. I did the potatoes.”  
   
“Traitor,” Dean said. Next to him he could feel Castiel already shifting, ready, as ever, to be helpful wherever he could be. He leaned on Castiel’s shoulder as he got to his feet, urging him to stay seated. “Nah, I got this, Cas,” he said.  
   
“Are you sure?” Castiel queried, eyeing him doubtfully.  
   
“I’m standing, aren’t I?” He started to grab some plates. “I’ll get the cookies when I put these in the kitchen.”  
   
“Can you take the cookies out of the tin and put them on a plate?”  
   
“Yeah, I know. You want tea?”  
   
“I want tea,” said Charlie.  
   
“I want whiskey,” said Bobby. A beat. “And also some of that peppermint shit.”  
   
Dean slowly turned to look at him.  
   
“What?” Bobby said. “It helps my digestion, you idjit.”  
   
Dean held up his hands defensively. “I didn’t say anything.”  
   
“You were thinking it.”  
   
“Oh, thought’s a crime now?”  
   
“Dean,” said Castiel. He held up his phone, which Dean hadn’t even heard ring. “It’s Sam.”  
   
After one more look in Bobby’s direction, Dean took it. “Hey, Sammy,” he said, gathering up the plates in the crook of his arm, “how’s Christmas with the in-laws?”  
   
As it turned out, Christmas with the in-laws did involve a nuclear family and a golden retriever. It also involved a surprising number of Irish coffees. Dean told Sam exactly what he thought about his poor little brother’s unfortunate situation, before Castiel’s cell phone was stolen by Ellen, who started up the conversation with a, “We’re calling dibs on you two for next year starting now.”  
   
Dean listened with half an ear as Castiel’s phone was passed around the rest of the family. Meanwhile, he puttered to and from the kitchen, piling dirty plates on the counter, bringing out tea and coffee and whiskey, and pulling out little plates for the dessert, while Ellen watched him like an unusually indulgent hawk.  
   
When all the dirty plates had been removed and replaced with clean ones, Dean spent his last trip to the kitchen rearranging Castiel’s cookies on a platter. It was a little chipped and dusty, grabbed from the top of a little-used cupboard, but it had a cheery Santa face on it, so Dean figured it was appropriately festive. Cas would probably like it, anyway.  
   
He stepped out the kitchen, plate in hand, only to find that in his absence, the rest of the group had decided to migrate to the living room and eat dessert on the couch, watching TV like a bunch of heathens. With a mental shrug, Dean pivoted to head towards what sounded like the opening music to _A Christmas Carol_.  
   
It was indeed _A Christmas Carol_. Only Bobby and Ellen were really watching it though, in between bites of pecan pie. Ash was still doing…whatever it was he’d been distracted with on his phone all night, and Jo was curled up in an easy-chair opposite her mother, focused on what looked like one of Bobby’s endless supply of old books.  
   
Dean looked for Castiel, and soon spotted him on the couch, legs tucked under his body and engaged in a low conversation with Charlie. Whatever they were talking about looked important. Charlie’s expression was uncharacteristically fierce, and Castiel’s mouth was turned down. Dean felt a flicker of concern.  
   
The noise of the TV was loud enough that Charlie and Castiel didn’t notice him as he drew nearer.  
   
“…I understand, Cas, I do. But don’t you think you’re over thinking it just a little?”  
   
“Absolutely not.” Castiel’s face was pale but resolute, hands clasped in his lap. “Dean is so loyal, Charlie, I worry he wouldn’t—”  
   
“Wouldn’t what?” Dean leaned against the back of the couch, pose carefully casual.  
   
They both jumped in surprise, turning to look up at him.  
   
“Dean!” Charlie exclaimed. She brought her hand to her chest. “You scared the hell out of me.” Her eyes lit up. “Wait, are those cookies?”  
   
“Sure are.” Dean handed the platter over to her. She accepted it, though still casting guilty little looks in Castiel’s direction. For the moment, Dean ignored her, refocusing instead on Castiel. “Wouldn’t what, Cas?” he repeated evenly.  
   
Castiel’s gaze skittered away. “It—it’s not important right now, Dean. Can we talk about this later?”  
   
Dean’s jaw worked. “Oh sure,” he said, bending closer to Castiel. Castiel’s nostrils flared, though he remained still. “Yeah, sure,” Dean repeated. “If we’d actually _talk about it_.” He straightened, crossing his arms, still staring steadily at Castiel. “But we both already know you’re just gonna evade my questions or get pissed about it, so what’s even the point?”  
   
Next to Castiel, Charlie choked on her cookie. “You know what?” she said, coughing, unfolding her legs as she stood, “I really need to, uh, pee. Be—be back.” She switched the platter of cookies from her lap to the coffee table, and beat a hasty retreat.  
   
Castiel glowered up at him. “Dean, this is not the time for this.”  
   
“Yeah?” The back of the couch was still between them. Dean was oddly thankful for it. It felt like it steadied him. He tried to keep his voice low, aware of the rest of the family still in the room, focused on the television. “Then when _is_ the time, Cas? Because god freaking knows I’ve asked and asked.” His voice dropped even further, “But you’ll tell _Charlie_?”  
   
Castiel lifted his chin, but didn’t answer. Dean wiped his hand across his mouth.  
   
“Damn it, Cas,” he said. “You couldn’t. Fuck.” He took a deep breath. “Couldn’t even fucking trust me a little?”  
   
At his words, Castiel looked stricken. “Dean,” he started, but Dean was already shaking his head.  
   
“No,” he said. “You know what? Fine. We’ll fucking do it your way. Fuck.” He walked around the couch, snagging a stray bottle of scotch and a glass, and sitting heavily in Charlie’s vacated seat, much further away from Castiel than he would have sat normally. Those few inches felt like a chasm, but Dean ignored it in favor of pouring himself a generous tumbler of scotch. “Cheers,” he muttered, and downed the entire thing.  
   
“Dean, please,” Castiel tried again, but Dean hushed him.  
   
“I’m watching the movie, Cas.” He poured himself another glass of scotch and took a generous gulp. “We can talk about it later.”  
   
Castiel’s eyes narrowed to slits but, likely conscious of the rest of the family only a few feet away, he held his tongue. He settled stiffly back into his seat, arms held tightly against his chest, mouth a thin line.  
   
Over the course of the next two hours, Dean was forced to watch one of literature’s most notorious assholes grow steadily kinder, while he himself grew steadily drunker. By the time the movie was finished, Dean was sloshed, Castiel’s lips were so thin they looked like they’d completely disappeared, and Ellen was glaring at him like she knew it was somehow Dean’s fault.  
   
Dean didn’t know how much she and the others, with the exception of Charlie, might have overheard of his and Cas’s argument. Regardless, he had a really bad feeling he was going to have to apologize to her tomorrow, for drinking all of the booze singlehandedly, if nothing else. Once the room stopped spinning, of course.  
   
Castiel didn’t even to bother to ask for his keys, just pulled them out of Dean’s pocket, face a mask of politeness as he turned to bid farewell to Bobby, thanking him for the hospitality.  
   
“Get home safe now,” Bobby said, eyeing Dean, who was swaying a little, but mercifully so focused on staying upright that he couldn’t get his mouth to construct the smartass response it _wanted_ to make. Instead, he managed only a vague wave as, with Castiel’s help, they made their way out to the car.  
   
Castiel didn’t speak to him on the ride back. Dean, arms still folded petulantly in the front seat, was beginning to sense that he had, somehow, really screwed up. However, he didn’t quite get how Cas could pin all this shit on him, since _he’d_ been the one to start it. In fact, Dean thought, Cas was being just as much of a dick as he was, and Dean told him so just as they pulled up to the front of their house.  
   
Castiel’s jaw clenched, but all he said was an icy, “We’ll discuss this when you’re sober, Dean,” as he helped Dean out of the car and up the front walk.  
   
Instead of cuddled together on the couch watching episode one of Castiel’s new Planet Earth DVDs, Dean found himself removed of his shoes and shirt, and poured into bed, a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen placed on the nightstand next to him. The next moment, it seemed like all he’d done was blink and the room was dark, the door closed, and Castiel’s footsteps were fading away down the hall.  
   
Dean absorbed this, swallowed against the nausea roiling his stomach, and managed a mumbled, “Fuck,” before passing out.  
   
 

 

 

#

   
   
The next morning was a Sunday. Dean gazed shakily at his pale, sweaty face in the bathroom mirror, and could only be grateful that he didn’t have to face work like this. His stomach rolled, and he ducked down once again to worship the porcelain god.  
   
It took several more minutes before he was mostly sure that his stomach had been emptied, and only then did he stumble downstairs, half dressed, feeling like death warmed over.  
   
Jesus, was this what getting old did to you? This was fucked up.  
   
Castiel was waiting for him in the kitchen. Dean tried to remember why that was a bad thing.  
   
“How’s your hangover?” Castiel asked neutrally, pouring a second cup of coffee. He was already dressed in worn jeans and what Dean recognized as one of his old flannel shirts  
   
In response, Dean made a pathetic noise.  
   
“I hope you’re not expecting me to feel sorry for you,” Castiel continued. Despite his words, he handed the mug to Dean, who cradled it, sniffing at the warmth.  
   
“Thanks, Cas,” he croaked. Goddamn, his voice was wrecked. “Um.”  
   
“I’m still angry with you,” Castiel said, in case that wasn’t abundantly clear. He crossed his arms, as if daring Dean to say something.  
   
Dean put the coffee down. “Cas,” he sighed, suddenly very tired. “You know, you’ve got—fuck—every right to be pissed at me—”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“—but I’ve also got every right to still be pissed at you, you know.”  
   
Castiel pursed his lips. “Dean,” he said, voice taut, “the correct response to me asking you to _wait_ to discuss an argument—”  
   
“Oh, come on, Cas! You were never going to discuss it and we both know it. You’ve been stonewalling me for _days_.”  
   
“It’s not to go ahead and _have_ that argument in front of our friends and family, and then get so drunk you can’t even stand up!” Castiel clenched his fists, his own mug forgotten on the counter. “Especially when you’re a guest in someone else’s home!”  
   
Dean’s jaw worked. “Yeah?” he snapped. “Well, maybe the _correct response_ to me trying to figure out what the hell’s been up your ass for the past week, isn’t to talk about it with freaking _Charlie_ at Christmas dinner!”  
   
Twin blotches rising to his cheeks, Castiel glared at him heatedly. “I’ve repeatedly asked you to respect my need to process the issue, Dean.”  
   
“Process with everyone on the goddamn planet _except me_ , you mean.”  
   
“They’re not involved, Dean. You are!”  
   
“So?” Dean was shouting now. He knew, in the back of his mind, that this was the last thing that was going to help, but he couldn’t stop. He was trembling. “You’re supposed to tell me these things, Cas! Especially if they involve me! I thought—” his voice cracked, “—aren’t we in this together?”  
   
Castiel was staring at him, face still furious, but with something like heartbreak in his eyes. He took a deep breath, “Dean, if you can’t—”  
   
“If I can’t?” Dean interrupted. “Then what, Cas? What?”  
   
Castiel looked at him, then abruptly pushed away from the counter. “This is getting us nowhere,” he said, voice clipped. “I have work to do. Maybe you ought to call Ellen and apologize for last night.”  
   
Dean’s mouth dropped open. “Are you seriously walking away right now? Right fucking now?”  
   
Castiel didn’t answer, just placed his coffee mug in the sink and turned towards the door. Dean strode after him.  
   
“Cas, we are not fucking done with this conversation! Cas!”  
   
But with the slam of the front door, Dean was alone.  
   
“Fuck,” Dean said, and hit the doorjamb with enough force to bruise his knuckles. “Fuck!”  
   
 

 

 

#

   
   
Dean did end up calling Ellen. Separately, he also called Bobby and Charlie, fumbling his way through an apology that Bobby didn’t understand at all, and Charlie clearly understood too well.  
   
That done, he cleaned the bathroom. Then he stripped the sheets off the bed and put new ones on. After that came a load of laundry, and then a shower.  
   
Bathroom clean, floors vacuumed and swept, and a lasagna constructed and put into the freezer for the coming week, Dean had also managed to keep down an entire three pieces of dried toast, and the sun had set by the time Castiel came home.  
   
Hearing the creak of the front door, Dean stilled from where he had been scrubbing the kitchen sink. The door clicked shut again, and then there were slow footsteps. They stopped. After a moment’s hesitation, Dean dropped his rag and turned around.  
   
Castiel stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Melting snow fell from his hair onto the damp shoulders of his borrowed flannel, his hands hung loose at his sides, his eyes were downcast.  
   
“Cas?” Dean said cautiously, after another moment or so of Castiel just sort of standing there. “You okay?”  
   
A slow shake of the head. Castiel still didn’t meet his eyes. Dean swallowed.  
   
“C’mere,” he said roughly, and opened his arms.  
   
For what felt like a lifetime, Dean thought that Castiel might actually refuse. But then, Castiel was tripping forward and Dean was catching him. Cas smelled like snow and cold sweat, his skin icy to the touch. He buried his face in Dean’s shoulder and even though Dean was still, _still_ fucking pissed at him, he couldn’t help but feel a great wave of relief wash over him at the steady weight in his arms.  
   
“Still mad at you,” Castiel mumbled into soft fabric of his t-shirt.  
   
“Yeah,” Dean said, gripping him with a surprising ferocity. “Me too.”  
   
“I don’t like it when you drink so much,” Castiel whispered. He pulled back enough to look at Dean imploringly. “You know I hate it. Please don’t do it again.”  
   
“I know.” Dean swallowed. He rubbed Castiel’s back. “I know, Cas. Sorry.”  
   
Castiel’s breath hitched. His hold on Dean tightened. Dean pretended not to notice. He moistened his lips. “I don’t like it when you keep things from me,” Dean found himself saying. “Specially if they’re, you know. Messing with you. Making you, you know. Upset.”  
   
Castiel was quiet, but Dean could tell that he was listening this time.  
   
“Cas, you know I respect the hell out of your privacy and what all, but sometimes—like with this? You gotta talk to me, okay?” Dean rested his forehead against Castiel’s. “I worry about you, man,” he breathed. “And I don’t like—” he hesitated. Took another gulp of air. “Feels like you’re trusting everyone else with this before me,” he said. “Cas—we’re in this, I gotta be first, okay. I gotta know that you trust me.”  
   
Dean could feel the slump of Castiel’s body before he even opened his mouth. Castiel breathed out, shaky.  
   
“I do—I do trust you, Dean. I trust you more than anyone.” A brief pause, and Castiel was disentangling himself. He didn’t go far however, just over to the kitchen table where he sat down, head in his hands. Dean immediately knelt beside him, so that they were still face-to-face.  
   
“You can tell me, Cas,” he said. “I’m not gonna be mad or anything. You’re not gonna scare me away.”  
   
Castiel huffed out a laugh clear as broken glass. “I was never worried about that, Dean,” he said. He let out a long exhale, then suddenly looked up, glassy eyes catching Dean’s unawares. He bit his lip, then said slowly, “I don’t want to get my record fixed.”  
   
Silence greeted this pronouncement.  
   
Castiel’s gaze flickered away. “I want to leave it as it is: a dishonorable discharge,” he said. He stumbled then, as Dean blinked in surprise. “But I didn’t—I didn’t want to tell you because I was worried…” he took a quick breath, “I was worried you’d do the same out of some—some misplaced loyalty to me, Dean and I know, I _know_ how much you want to get yours set right, I didn’t want you to, you know.” He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “I want you to achieve that goal,” he said. “Even if I can’t. And I didn’t…” he hesitated, then said, voice strengthening, “My mind’s made up. I didn’t want you to stop me or try and change my mind. I knew you would, if I told you.”  
   
Dean was staring at him, lips barely parted. “But Cas,” he said finally, gathering Castiel’s hands in his, “ _Why_?”  
   
Castiel looked at him helplessly. “I don’t know,” he said. “It just doesn’t feel right.”  
   
“But—” Dean protested. Surely Cas couldn’t think he had somehow _deserved_ the dishonorable discharge, could he? He had always been so brave, the poster boy of the honorable soldier. That’s what deserved to go down in the books, not whatever bullshit they’d inscribed there instead.  
   
Castiel’s grip on his fingers tightened. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”  
   
Dean stilled. He met Castiel’s eyes. There was a lump in his throat, the corners of his own eyes burned. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Okay, Cas,” he said quietly. “Okay.”  
   
“Okay?” The lines in Castiel’s forehead creased.  
   
Dean nodded. “I can’t say I get it. Can’t say I, you know, _agree_. But I’m not gonna force you to go through with anything.” He grimaced. “I couldn’t do that to you.” He glanced away, then back at Castiel’s face, letting out a sigh. “Just. One thing.”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
“I gotta respect—whatever feeling this is, it’s your gut, right?”  
   
“I—” Castiel looked down. “I suppose so. Yes.”  
   
“Okay,” Dean said. “Well. If you—I mean.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “You uh, you figure out why you—why your gut says no, you tell me, okay?”  
   
“Okay?” Castiel’s voice was hesitant. Dean frowned at him.  
   
“I mean it, Cas,” Dean said. “Don’t keep that shit from me, even if you think it’s going to change my mind about my own situation or whatever.” His mouth crooked up. “You’re supposed to tell me these things. That’s kind of what I’m here for, you know?”  
   
Biting his lip, Castiel glanced up again. “Okay, Dean,” he said, this time more firmly. He squeezed Dean’s hands. “When I figure out why I feel so…” his face scrunched in thought, “so conflicted,” he finished, and nodded. “I will speak with you about it.”  
   
“And we can figure it out some more.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Promise?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes were solemn. “I swear.”  
   
Dean’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Thanks, Cas,” he said. He let go of Castiel with one hand to leverage himself off the floor, letting out a groan. “Damn,” he grunted, “tile’s hell on the knees.”  
   
“You’ve never complained before,” Castiel observed.  
   
“Haha, very funny.” Hands on his hips, Dean surveyed him with a jaundiced look, his attention lingering on Castiel's disheveled dark hair and mismatched Christmas socks. “Come on,” he said, extending his hand. “You can comfort me in the shower.”  
   
“Didn’t you already take one?” Castiel accepted the hand anyway, allowing Dean to pull him up.  
   
“How’d you know that?”  
   
Castiel shrugged. “Your hair smells like shampoo.”  
   
Dean couldn’t help but soften at that, but all he said was, “You need to warm up. Couldn’t you have at least grabbed your coat?”  
   
“It wasn’t that cold.”  
   
“It was _snowing_.”  
   
“Not very hard,” Castiel argued, to which Dean could do nothing but roll his eyes, before shoving Castiel into the bathroom.  
   
 

 

 

#

   
   
The rest of the holiday season felt oddly delicate. New Years came and went. Charlie hosted that one, filling her apartment with nerds of all stripes, many of whom were duly intimidated by Dean, right until he opened his mouth and they realized that he was _that_ Dean, at which point Dean made a mental note to interrogate Charlie regarding just what, exactly, she had been telling people about him.  
   
When the countdown began, Castiel was already asleep in one of the chairs, neck crooked in a way Dean knew he was definitely going to be hearing about later, totally oblivious to the commotion around him. Rather than wake him, Dean pressed his lips to Castiel’s forehead when the clock struck midnight, resolutely ignoring Charlie’s soft sigh, and the giggling he could hear behind them.  
   
The days moved on. School started up again, and Dean found himself scrambling to reorganize his hours at the garage so that he and Castiel had time off on more or less the same schedule. In Dean’s world, this meant some rather humiliating begging for the actual weekend, a hot commodity in the shop. Unfortunately, on account of his disinclination to work Saturdays, Dean was often forced to partake in parts of the job that he didn’t exactly enjoy.  
   
Case in point: desk duty.  
   
In an ideal world, running the desk would’ve been an excuse to kick back, relax, and maybe surf the Internet on company time. But Dean knew that was a dirty trap. Instead, for the three hours that Bobby was across town arguing with a distributor, _Dean_ magically became the one responsible for placating any upset customers and—Dean was sure of this—they always came out of the woodwork when he was the one behind counter, like they could smell just how very much Dean loathed talking to them.  
   
It wasn’t that he didn’t take pride in his work, no, but sometimes the customers could be so damned _petty_ , like they expected Dean to try and cheat them for everything he was worth.  
   
Dean was a lot of things, but he didn’t cheat Bobby’s customers. The town was small, and an honest reputation got you a hell of a lot further than a crooked one.  
   
So, after Dean explained for the third time exactly what was wrong with the Toyota Camry to the stone-faced soccer mom, and why if she didn’t pay to get it fixed now, the issue would eventually screw the transmission and _that_ would be an entirely different species of clusterfuck, he sat down in the stool with a heavy thump, massaging his temples, and glancing at the clock on the wall.  
   
Two more hours. Damn Bobby and his stupid lunch meetings.  
   
The door swung open again, and Dean glanced up, half dreading the return of the irate soccer mom. But instead, it was some new guy. Brown hair, muscle shirt, leather jacket. Around Dean’s age, or maybe a little younger. Dean slid off the stool and leaned against the counter.  
   
“Can I help you?”  
   
The guy stepped forward, looking around the shop as he did so. “Yeah,” he said. “Uh, HVAC’s crapped out on me. Heat won’t turn on at all.”  
   
Dean whistled in sympathy. “Bad time of year for it.”  
   
“No kidding.”  
   
Dean reached for one of the forms littering the underside of the desk, and slid over a pen. “Name, model and year, plate, mileage,” he recited, ticking off his fingers. “Short description of the problem, if you want. So long as we’ve got the parts, should only be a couple hours. Could have it done for you this afternoon if you want.”  
   
“Sounds good.” The guy took the pen and started writing. He held his left arm very stiffly, Dean noticed, like he was trying not to bump it against anything.  
   
“You hurt your arm? Uh,” Dean’s gaze flickered to the paper where the guy had just written down his name, “Cole?”  
   
Cole put the pen down. “Old shoulder injury,” he said, grimacing. “VA’s done fuck all for it, of course.”  
   
Dean nodded. “Bummer,” he said. He pretended to examine the paperwork that Cole handed to him. “You, uh, you an active serviceman or a vet?”  
   
Looking confused, Cole nodded. “Do I have to fill out some other paperwork or something?” he asked, but Dean waved him off.  
   
“Nah, man, it’s cool. Just a short form. Means you get a discount.”  
   
Cole blinked. “I do?”  
   
“Yeah, man.” Dean moved the paperwork aside, accepted the key that Cole untangled from his key ring and placed on top of the counter. “Veteran owned and operated,” he said, not without a little pride. “So you get ten percent off.”  
   
“All right.” For the first time, Cole looked a little pleased. He even gave Dean a companionable smile. “So you must really get what I mean when I talk about how much the VA sucks,” he said.  
   
His back to Cole as he battled the PC to print out a second form, Dean allowed himself a snort. “Cas always says we dodged a bullet with that one,” he said, smiling to himself. “Course, he’s got teacher’s benefits now, so what the fuck does he care, am I right?”  
   
He was halfway through turning around to give Cole the newly printed form before he quite realized what he’d said. On the other side of the counter, Cole was giving him a suspicious look.  
   
The full impact of what he’d just admitted now sinking in, Dean did the only thing he could do: he plastered on a smile, cleared his throat, and took the second form that Cole handed to him, promising to call in a couple hours when the car had been seen to.  
   
It was only after Cole had left, air of silent judgment in his wake, that Dean let the mask fall. He stood stock still behind the counter, teeth grinding, before suddenly letting out an incredibly frustrated, “God damn it!” and smacking his palm against the countertop so hard that the file folders fell over.  
   
Well, the only thing to hope for was that either they wouldn’t have the parts (they did), or that Bobby would get his shit together and get back so that Dean could go sulk in the garage next to the rack of tires. Either way, he’d never have to speak to the dude again.  
   
Of course, because the world was a cruel place and Bobby was the sort of individual who procrastinated all of his errands and then tried to do every single one of them in a five-hour period on a Friday afternoon, Dean was still manning the desk when Cole came to pick up his car.  
   
Dean saw him through the window first and, in a moment of pure cowardice, actually considered dragging Benny out to deal with him instead. But before he could quite figure out if Benny would demand something in return, it was too late, and the guy was inside.  
   
They each gave the other an awkward once-over. Dean coughed.  
   
“Uh,” he said. “Your total’s eighty-seven fifty.”  
   
Cole was still looking at him, like he wasn’t sure if he actually wanted his car back, now that Dean had his filthy paws all over it. “Uh, yeah, yeah,” he said finally, coming forward. “Thanks.”  
   
Not really trusting himself to speak, Dean practically shoved the invoice at him. “Uh,” he muttered then, realizing, “gotta run your card.”  
   
Cole gave him the card. It was when Dean’s back was turned that he asked, “You one of the vets here too?”  
   
Fuck. Dean drew his hand across his mouth, practically stabbing at the keyboard. “Yeah.”  
   
“You got kicked out?” It wasn’t really a question. Not being eligible for VA benefits was a giant red flag, and they both knew it. But Jesus, who the hell just brought that shit up?  
   
“Yeah,” he grunted finally. He swiveled to give the card back, and found Cole regarding him with something akin to the curiosity one saw with patrons at the local zoo.  
   
“What uh, what did you do?”  
   
Dean’s nostrils flared. “We didn’t _do_ anything,” he said, voice bitter.  
   
“We?”  
   
Dean scowled, fingers curling into fists on top of the counter. Screw this punk-ass kid. He wanted to know? Dean would fucking tell him. “Me and Cas,” he said, voice flat. “We weren’t even on freaking duty. We were on leave and some punk-ass snitch saw me giving Cas a kiss outside a freakin’ bar.” His glare intensified as he stared Cole down. “Ain’t supposed to tell, right?” he said, only slightly mockingly.  
   
He could see the moment that the realization hit. Cole’s eyes widened. “You got the boot for that?”  
   
Dean shrugged uncomfortably. “We were fucking court marshaled over it. Fuck.”  
   
“And discharged.”  
   
“Obviously,” Dean said, tone just this side of scathing as he reached for another pen. “Bunch of bullshit you ask me. Specially Cas. I wasn't really anything special, but Cas was the best they had by far. He was gonna go career, the whole way.”  
   
Silence. Dean glanced up. Cole was staring at him, biting his lower lip. “I uh,” he said, while Dean’s eyebrows slowly raised. “I’m not like—homophobic or anything, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “Just—you really think that’s how you guys should’ve been, uh acting? Wearing the uniform and all?”  
   
Dean favored him with an incredibly cold look. “Buddy,” he said, leaning forward, “you got a girl?”  
   
Cole’s forehead furrowed, but he nodded.  
   
“You kiss her when you’re off duty?”  
   
Cole’s face was starting to color, but he did murmur a low agreement. Dean narrowed his eyes at him. “Then what the fuck,” he managed evenly, “difference does it fucking make?”  
   
No reply. Cole just stood there, deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face, clutching his invoice. “I just—” he started after another moment, but Dean cut him off.  
   
“Cas and I ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of,” he bit out. “Way I see it, the only dickheads who should be ashamed are the ones who thought kissing a dude was grounds to kick us out in the first place.” At the thought of it, years ago but suddenly feeling so damned fresh, Dean barely refrained from punching the counter. Instead he said, lip curled, “Have a nice day.”  
   
And, despite the fact that Bobby would probably read him the riot act for leaving the desk, he turned on his heel and stalked into the back, leaving Cole gaping after him.  
   
Dean was so furious that he didn’t even notice Charlie when he turned the corner, and bumped right into her. She didn’t seem angry though. Instead, she aimed brimming eyes up at him, choked out, “I’m so proud of you,” and hugged him tightly around the middle.  
   
It took a moment, but Dean’s rage slowly began to fade, to be replaced by bewilderment. “Wha—what?”  
   
Charlie stepped back, wiping suspiciously wet cheeks. She gnawed on her lower lip for a second, then admitted, “Sorry, Dean. I was coming to get something at the desk and…” she trailed off. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”  
   
“Oh,” said Dean, realizing. “You overheard.”  
   
“Yeah,” she said. To be honest, she didn’t sound too torn up about it, either. Rather, she was slowly shaking her head from side to side, favoring him with an admiring look. “Damn, Dean,” she said. “You smacked him down hard!”  
   
“I uh,” Dean said, fidgeting a little with the edge of his shirt. “I guess.”  
   
“I mean, it seriously sucks that the dude was such a grade-A jerkhole,” Charlie continued, “but man oh man.” Positively gleeful now, she clapped him on the back. “At least you got to tell the guy off.” The corner of her mouth turned up hopefully. “That’s got to feel a little good, right?”  
   
Dean dropped his gaze. “Not really,” he muttered after a moment, shoving his hands into his back pockets. _Still happened._  
   
 

 

 

#

   
   
There was one benefit to the events of the afternoon. When Bobby finally got back, Dean—or maybe it was Charlie—finagled him into letting Dean leave early. His first instinct was to head for a bar, but the consequences of the last argument he and Cas had had hanging over his head, Dean ultimately decided against it. Instead, he drove aimless out of town, careful on the icy roads, circling dead fields smothered in snow, headlights sweeping over the gnarled, bare and lonely trees.  
   
He ended up getting back around seven. Not too late, but enough so that when Dean checked the time and then for messages on his phone, he was surprised to see that Castiel hadn’t tried to call him. The restless feeling thrumming through his body, fueled by an anger and resentment he’d long since thought had been dealt with, had started to fade with the miles, and now he felt a twinge of concern. Only a few blocks from home and feeling a bit guilty, he dialed Castiel’s phone instead.  
   
It immediately went to voicemail.  
   
Frowning, Dean tossed his phone in the back, and pressed on the gas.  
   
When he walked inside, the lights were on. Nothing seemed out of place. Castiel’s overcoat hung on the hook on the outside of the closet door, his briefcase sat nestled next to the bookshelf, papers spilling out of it.  
   
“Cas?” Dean called, striding past the entrance and towards the rest of the house. “You here?”  
   
The kitchen was bare and spotless, save for that morning’s breakfast dishes. Dean’s frown grew deeper. It wasn’t like Castiel had to make him dinner every evening, but by mutual agreement, the chore did usually fall to the first person to get home. Tonight though, Castiel hadn’t even bothered to order a pizza.  
   
“Cas?” Dean said again, looking slowly around the kitchen, like Castiel would suddenly materialize from behind Grandma Deanna’s fine china. “Babe?”  
   
No answer. Starting to feel actually worried now, Dean headed briskly towards the hallway leading out of the kitchen to the rest of the house. On the way, he passed by the stack of the day’s mail, scattered in a heap on the floor under his feet. Eyebrows drawing together, Dean bent to pick it up.  
   
It was only a few things: a late holiday card from the insurance company, a coupon book for the Kroger’s down the street, and something…  
   
The envelope was thick, sturdy.  Dean turned it over in his hands. Embossed on the front was a seal he was intimately familiar with. Dean’s heart began to race. The envelope itself was addressed to Castiel. It was already ripped open, and Dean could see a piece of paper just sticking out. It was folded strangely, like it had been hastily stuffed back inside. Dean pulled it out.  
   
_Dear Captain Novak,_ it began. _“Due to recent administrative and policy changes, it has come to our attention that…”_  
   
Swearing, Dean dropped the letter like it was on fire. “Cas?” he shouted. “Cas?”  
   
Fuck. The bedroom. Dean hadn’t checked the bedroom. He pounded up the stairs. When he reached the top, he swung open the door to the master bedroom and burst inside, panting, “Cas?”  
   
The lights were off. There was a sizable lump underneath the covers. Dean wavered in the doorway but then, hearing the lump make an audible sniffle, he toed off his shoes, slipped out of his jacket, and approached the bed.  
   
Cas never cried. Dean played tough, but he knew that when push came to shove, he was always the first one to turn on the waterworks. But Cas? Never. Sure, he got that pinched look around his eyes, his lip might tremble a bit, but damn, he never _wept._  
   
“Cas?”  
   
There was a mumble. The lump shifted a bit. Dean took that as an invitation to sit on the bed. He laid a gentle hand on where he thought Castiel’s shoulder might be. Finally—  
   
“Dean?”  
   
Dean closed his eyes. “Yeah, babe,” he said. “Sorry I got home so late.”  
   
“S okay.” Castiel’s voice sounded even rougher than usual. “Bobby called.”  
   
“Oh.” Dean’s shoulders caved inward. “Sorry,” he said again.  
   
A hand emerged from beneath the blankets to pat his arm. “I understand,” Castiel said. “You needed some time.” He sighed.  
   
Dean caught the hand patting him, turned it over, folded it into his own. “Saw you got a letter.”  
   
He could hear Castiel’s swallow. “I did.”  
   
Dean bit his bottom lip. “Cas—”  
   
“They didn’t even get the name right,” Castiel whispered, and he just sounded so lost. “They didn’t—”  
   
Castiel stopped talking and squeezed his hand instead, like he was looking for grounding, something that would help him keep hold. Gripping back automatically, Dean’s eyes caught the flash of gold on his finger. He shook his head, more tired than anything. “Guess not everybody’s as advanced as the state of Iowa,” he said, not without some bitterness.  
   
“They want me back,” Castiel said, and Dean wasn’t even surprised. Hell, hadn’t he told that Cole guy that Cas had been one of the best?  
   
“Do you want to go back?”  
   
Castiel sat up suddenly, the blankets falling off his chest, his hair a mess of black wire, his nose blotchy. “No!” he said, vehemently as, eyes flashing, he lunged forward to press a hard kiss to Dean’s mouth. Dean caught him, steadied him by the shoulders.  
   
“You sure?”  
   
Castiel’s eyes were red but his mouth was firm. “I would never.”  
   
Though he’d known intellectually that the chances of Castiel wanting to reenlist were slim to none, Dean couldn’t help but feel a shudder of relief. After all, the only thing worse than both of them being in a war zone, was forcing one of them to stay behind. And no way in hell did Dean want to go through that shit again.  
   
Dean drew a hand down Castiel’s face, pushed back his messy, sweaty hair. “I’m glad,” he said seriously.  
   
Castiel kissed him again, drawing Dean down beside him. A few more kisses, and Castiel sagged into the pillows, into Dean. Dean pulled him into his arms.  
   
“You gonna call ‘em?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Okay, well,” Dean smiled to himself, “if you send them a refusal letter, make sure you sign it _C. Winchester_ so they can update their records.”  
   
Castiel let out a faint huff. “I should, should I?”  
   
“That’s what the monogrammed towel set says.”  
   
“I can’t believe you use those.”  
   
“Hey, Gabe gave them to us. Only fair I use them to wipe my ass.”  
   
“I sincerely hope you don’t,” Castiel grumbled, and Dean couldn’t help but laugh. He quieted though, when Castiel’s silence grew pensive again. “It’s as though they want to pretend it never happened,” he said, almost to himself.  
   
“What?”  
   
Castiel shifted a little in Dean’s arms, so that they were lying face to face. “The letter,” he said. “The tone of it was as though they just want to erase it, fix everything like it’s all—all okay right now.” His lips thinned. “But it did happen,” he said. “It did.”  
   
Dean nodded. “I know.”  
   
“I don’t want to go back,” Castiel said. His voice was quiet, but resolute. “I don’t want to get my record fixed. It's a stain but…” he trailed off for a second, searched for Dean’s gaze and locked on. “It’s an important stain,” he said. “I can’t let them erase it.”  
   
Dean’s throat was dry. “Yeah,” he said. “I get it.”  
   
There was a soft touch to his face. “You aren’t obligated,” Castiel told him. The corner of his mouth lifted self deprecatingly. “One stupid martyr is quite enough for this family.”  
   
Dean outright snorted at that. “Cas, babe,” he said. “Have you _met_ me?”  
   
Castiel gave him a look, Dean sobered.  
   
“I’ll think about it,” he promised.  
   
Castiel gifted him with another kiss, this one a soft, breathy touch of air. “You’re everything to me, Dean,” he said. “I want you to be happy with your choice, whatever it is.” He leaned in again, but Dean stopped him.  
   
“Cas,” he said, gaze intent, hands cupping either side of Castiel’s face. His thumbs brushed liquid off of Castiel’s cheeks. Castiel closed his eyes at the feeling, but Dean urged them open. “Cas,” he said again. Their eyes met. Dean smiled. “I _am_.”  
   
In response, Castiel curled into him and Dean’s arms clasped around him, holding strong through the night and clear into morning.  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
_Fin_  
   
 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) In this story, Castiel recites a section of the poem "Love Is Strong As Death" to Dean, which is from Song of Songs, attributed to King Solomon.
> 
> 2) DADT was signed into repeal on December 22, 2010. It did not fully go into implementation until September 20, 2011.
> 
> 3) In 2010, Iowa was the only state in the Midwest where gay marriage was legal.
> 
>  
> 
> Visit me on tumblr? Username: Aerlalaith


End file.
